


Imagine: Castiel discovers the joy of sexting* with a little help from his friends, the Winchesters.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 10:49:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: *Warning for adult themes (non-explicit), angelic awkwardness, and Dean’s sense of humor. Based on a sweet anon request - thank you nonnie!





	Imagine: Castiel discovers the joy of sexting* with a little help from his friends, the Winchesters.

“Agent Beyoncé, you need to take that call?” Dean grumbles under his breath through clenched teeth, casting a stern angular glare in Castiel’s direction. It’s the third time the angel’s phone has buzzed in as many minutes, and it’s become downright distracting.

Cas’ features remain impassive and unapologetic under the vexed glare of both Sam and Dean and the equally irked scowl of the local sheriff they are interviewing about a recent spate of unusual deaths. Only the frantic fret of his fingers reaching into his inner suit coat pocket to silence the device betray the angel’s perturbation over the situation. The situation being the fact that you’ve been texting him baffling messages all day. “Pardon me,” he mutters, excusing himself with a curt nod. Upon reaching the parking lot in front of the police station, he scrolls through the latest flurry of messages:

_“It’s lonely in the bunker without you.”_

Of course you’re lonely, he thinks – you’re there in the bunker alone while he and the Winchesters are out here, in the middle of _East Bumfuck_ as Dean aptly coined the town, investigating a lead.

_“Do you miss me?”_

He thinks this is a redundant query – he already confirmed twice this morning that he does, indeed, miss you exactly as much if not more so than you miss him.

_“I’m drawing up a nice hot bubble bath. Really wish I was in your warm embrace right now.”_

At no point in time does he recall in any of his sleepless wandering midnight excursions into the dim depths of the bunker ever having laid eyes on a bathtub, let alone one constructed for double occupancy lounging. It occurs to him you might have taken the liberty of having one installed during the three days they have been absent. Either that, or you’ve been hexed by a witch and are suffering delusions.

_“What are you wearing?”_

Cas’ brow creases – the dark lines punctuating the genuine confusion churning in his blue irises.

“What does Y/N want anyway? She’s been at it all day,” Dean’s husky voice intrudes upon the angel’s bewilderment.

“She come up with any more fatalities matching the perp’s M.O.?” Sam adds, perpetually the professional at staying on task.

“Stop that,” Dean scolds, grimacing at his brother.

“Stop what?” Sam snarls a questioning lip, non-FBI regulation remonstrant hair flicking of its own volition.

Dean waggles a ridiculing finger. “Using the FBI mumbo-jumbo speech when it’s us. Just cause you’re still in the suit doesn’t mean-”

“She wants to know what I’m wearing,” Cas blurts out, cutting off the elder Winchester’s tirade and staring between the two men through a matched set of naïve sapphire eyes petitioning them for a reasonable explanation for your odd request.

“She wants to know what now?” Dean’s demeanor instantaneously shifts, a Machiavellian smirk twirling at the corners of his mouth as he clasps a commiserating palm to his seraphim friend’s shoulder.

Sam’s lips press into a thin curved crescent in an attempt to mask his profound amusement. When the smile threatens to burst free under the mounting pressure, he squeezes and rubs at his jaw to cover the gaping grin.

“Well buddy, why don’t you send her a picture?” Dean suggests, greens glinting in ersatz earnestness. “It’s been, what? _Three whole days?_ She probably just forgot how handsome you are and needs a little-,” he pauses for emphasis, “ _inspiration._ ”

The angel’s blues narrow in contemplation. Perhaps Dean is correct. After all, humans do seem to have a somewhat limited capacity, by angelic comparison, to recall blatantly obvious finite details as more and more time elapses. However unlikely given how long you and Cas have known each another, as friends and now more intimately, he concedes this slim possibly might include you, perchance, disremembering certain finite details such as the fact that he only ever wears the same suit, tie, and trench coat. In all the time you’ve known him, there’s just been the single utilitarian outfit.

Sure, sometimes, such as at present, he defies the laws of common decency parading around practically naked sans the trench coat; however, these occasions are exceedingly rare and scarcely worth mentioning. Add to this wobbly argument the selfie you sent of your charming smiling visage shortly after he departed the bunker captioned: _“So you don’t forget who is waiting for you back home.”_ The angel almost, _almost_ , supposes Dean’s theory is right. He all but says so by agreeing to the idea, “Okay, Dean.”

Dean’s eyebrows ascend the slope of his forehead as he exchanges an impish glance with Sam – the look relaying without words that the angel is without a doubt too gullible for his own good.

Sam’s silent squint proposes a show of sympathy.

Dean’s devilish smirk declines the motion.

Cas’ fingers fumble to straighten his tie. He checks and smooths his dark curls in the side mirror of his truck. He peers to the brothers for their approval of his appearance.

Dean nods and flashes him a smile.

Sam offers him two thumbs up.

Squinting into the sun, Cas extends his arm out at an awkward angle, expression a serious veneer as he captures a photo of himself.

“Be sure to ask her what she’s wearing,” Dean advises, snickering.

Castiel does as instructed and swipes send. Awaiting your reply, his eyes flit up briefly from the screen, a grateful small smile touching his lips for the brothers’ assistance. The phone vibrates in his fingertips and his regard drops. Seeing you there, sprawled out in a ripped vintage Stones t-shirt slung _dangerously low_ , the scanty fabric hugging every curve and leaving very little to the imagination as to what you wear, or don’t wear, beneath where your fingers dare to sensually stray at the hem, the smile slowly melts from his mouth, dripping to form a rapt unspoken _oh_ as he feels an undeniable swell of understanding.


End file.
